0764217518

by Melissa Jagears

  “No, it’s not that.” She swallowed hard, then grabbed her teacup and gulped. “I know what people are going to think. But my husband supports me, so I’m not going to explain myself to anyone.” The redness in her eyes bespoke sleeplessness, and her troubled gaze kept Lydia from prodding her anymore.

  “But I feel like I should tell you.” Bernadette reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ve worked hard for the Lord the twenty years I’ve been at Walter’s side. It’s expected of you, if you marry a pastor, and I was determined to be a model pastor’s wife.” She let out a chuckle and winced. “But I was doing it all for me, all for Walter, all for the good opinion of the people looking to us as examples.” She looked away, as if she couldn’t bear to look at her. “But I did none of it for the Lord,” she whispered.

  “That’s not true. He can take anything and use it for His good.”

  She nodded slowly. “He can, and I’m thankful he’s used my last twenty years for something—He has indeed done some good things through me.” She looked at her hands for a bit before grabbing her cup again.

  “Then you’re being too hard on yourself.”

  She set down her cup and faced her. “What would you think of me if I told you I’ve not read the Bible once in twenty years unless my husband instructed us to do so during a sermon?”

  Lydia ran a hand along her temple, trying to form a response.

  “Or that I only pray in Sunday school class when asked? That I encourage people to share their prayer requests, knowing I’ll likely not pray for anyone because I forget to speak to God once I leave church?”

  “Are you saying that you don’t believe in God—”

  “No, just that I’m a rather immature Christian.”

  Was she any better? She read a lot, but how often did she turn to a novel first? “Then what will you do?”

  “I’m going to take this headache that comes on in the early afternoons as a reminder that I need God. Nothing has helped the pain for three months—tea, compresses, rest. I’ve spent the last two days reading the Bible until I fell asleep despite the pain. And that’s all I’m going to do. I’m quitting teaching the girls on Sunday morning. I’m quitting the moral society. I’m quitting the knitting group . . . everything.” She made a sorrowful face. “If I don’t have anything inside to give, I have no business telling others how to live.”

  “But helping the poor—”

  “Is a very good thing. But not for me. Not right now. Maybe Evelyn can help you when she gets home. She shames me with her dedication to the Lord.”

  Evelyn would certainly want to help, but she was a young woman under her parents’ roof without resources to dip into or much sway with the elders, just like Lydia.

  Lydia put her hand on Bernadette’s hunched back and was about to ask if she could pray for her, but she didn’t need permission to pray for her friend—she just should. Lord, heal my friend. And heal me.

  She’d prayed very little these last few months herself. Uncertain God would provide her with the security she wanted, she’d been too busy making sure she’d be taken care of her way after Mama’s death.

  And she’d just been thinking poorly of Bernadette because she wouldn’t help with the children.

  Thinking poorly of the police officer because he didn’t see things her way.

  Thinking poorly of Nicholas because his motives were different than hers.

  Were any of them doing what God wanted them to do?

  20

  Henri leaned back in the leather chair as if he owned it, an amused expression on his face.

  Nicholas scowled, then pivoted and paced back across his study. His friend had picked an inconvenient time to drop in unannounced. Nicholas needed to get to his weekly meeting with the mill’s supervisor, but his lawyer was evidently running late with the paperwork he needed to sign for a later meeting with his company manager, Mr. Renfroe.

  Not that Henri ever made a habit of asking when would be a good time to visit before he showed up.

  Henri broke the silence. “You’re acting as if you’re debating over asking some woman to court.”

  Nicholas stopped to glare at his friend, who was rolling a pen between his fingers.

  Henri’s mouth twitched, and the pen stilled. “You are!”

  “I am not.” He stiffened and went back to pacing. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who would I court?”

  “That pretty little lady with the pale blue eyes.”

  Nicholas scrunched up his face as if he never thought about her. “Lydia?”

  Henri’s smile grew wider.

  Blast. “Uh, I mean . . . Miss King.”

  Henri tapped the pen’s tip on the desk blotter decisively. “It’s about time you thought about marrying again.”

  A lecture was not what he needed right now. “No, it isn’t.”

  “I saw your face, Nick. You’re attracted.”

  He needed to get his jabbering friend off this tangent. “And when, pray tell, Bachelor Beauchamp, will you settle down yourself . . . for the first time?”

  Henri leaned back in his chair and walked the pen through his fingers. “I’ve no need to settle down. You, however, are wound tighter than a grandfather clock. A woman would do you some good.”

  “If you must know, I’m taking Miss King to see the library after lunch today.” He stopped at the window and surveyed the new coach waiting near the carriage house in the peachy morning light. “I’m not sure she’s going to like it.”

  “And since when do you care what people like?” Henri looked up at the ceiling, tapped his chin, then clapped his hands. “Oh, I know, it’s when you’re not thinking about courting them.”

  Nicholas tried the evil glare again. “Shouldn’t you be getting to work by now?”

  Henri only rolled his eyes. “I thought you said she liked books. So what’s not to like about a library?”

  “It’s not the typical library, and she’s already disappointed in me.”

  “And since when have you ever let someone’s disappointment bother you?” Henri grabbed the newspaper off the side table and flicked it open with a dramatic clearing of his throat.

  So he’d seen this morning’s article already? Likely why he’d come over then.

  Henri turned directly to page five and started reading. “‘Little Rosa fined sixteen dollars for public indecency with a man aged five and twenty in plain view of the train station off Eleventh. She’s a strumpet of the worst kind, leaving a husband of two years behind to dally in the red-light districts of Baxter before moving to Teaville.’”

  “And of course the upstanding male dallying with her isn’t named,” Nicholas muttered.

  Henri paused to look at him before continuing. “‘Evidently not everyone believes these lewd women should pay for their sins. Our illustrious Mr. Lowe approached the marshal at her arraignment and requested the fines be dropped if any of these frail ladies renounced their profession and chose honest labor—which he could provide if necessary. Obviously, Mr. Lowe hasn’t enough money sitting atop the hill south of town, so he plans to exploit these women as well. What sweat shop is he setting up for these women? The myriad fines obtained from the alley cats and johns at least end up in our city coffers, but he’d rather take advantage—’”

  “Stop. I’ve read it twice already.”

  Henri dropped the paper into his lap. “I have to say, I’m actually impressed you did something this public. Please tell me this isn’t the end of your little adventures. I do so enjoy running around with you behind the bigwigs’ backs, putting kinks in their plans on occasion.”

  Nicholas sat down and stared at his hands clasped between his knees. He couldn’t keep the charade up. Lydia was right. A lone wolf could only do so much. And though God could do mighty things through a willing individual, there were so many deeds of darkness to expose, so many sinners in need of rescue.

  And he hadn’t asked the church for help since moving here, certain that this town’s Christians would
be just like those in his old neighborhood in St. Louis. They’d refused to comfort him or his wife in her final days because they were too good to be associated with Gracie or him any longer.

  Not even pleading for a modicum of mercy on his wife’s behalf had moved them.

  And that’s why he’d left Missouri. After the story of how Gracie died had made its rounds, they’d never treated him the same. Never listened.

  Effie walked by the open doorway, humming.

  Nicholas bolted from his seat, crossed the room, and shut the door before Henri got a good look at her.

  “Did a bee sting you?” Henri looked at him as if he were crazy.

  “Uh, no.” He looked about for an excuse as if one were just lying around. “Felt a draft.”

  “All right.” Henri drawled as if talking to someone slow in the head.

  Would Henri buy his explanation for the women and three children under his roof? He’d finally convinced Pepper to come to the mansion last night. She likely didn’t trust him a whit more than before, but the light in her eyes when he’d mentioned his cook indicated Queenie’s steady diet of beans had at least pushed the girl into giving his place a chance. Hopefully she’d see how well Angel and Robbie fared in his home and would settle in. If he let the church know what he was about, he’d have to tell them everything, but why not start by informing Henri?

  No, he had to tell the maids first. They still didn’t know he was aware they were ex-prostitutes, since Caroline and Roxanna had acted as if they were sneaking them in under his nose.

  His maids would bear the brunt of exposure more than he.

  “She’s good for you.”

  “What?” He laid a hand on the door. At least Henri hadn’t recognized Effie as she’d marched past.

  “This Miss King. I’ve never seen you so unsure of your cocky self.”

  He turned slowly, his arms crossed. Who was this man calling cocky? Henri was the king of braggadocio.

  “Not that you don’t have the right to some good old-fashioned arrogance. A man of your age wouldn’t have accomplished so much unless he believed in himself. But you’re too blasted sure of everything and everybody.”

  “I don’t know how my business skills and a very lucky discovery of natural gas make a woman who’s with another man good for me.”

  Henri waved a hand about the room. “You have everything a man wants—money, prestige, servants.”

  Nicholas only shook his head. He didn’t want to discuss this anymore anyway.

  “Well, I must be off to work, as you said.” Henri threw the paper onto the table and took one last swig of his tea. “A man like you gets the woman he wants, Nicholas. Don’t let some two-faced conniver have her.”

  “And you have evidence of his conniving?” Nicholas followed Henri to the hall tree. Hopefully he really did have something beyond the rumors he’d heard.

  His friend grabbed his hat. “You and I both can read people—he’s slimy.”

  “I don’t like him, yes. But I don’t like a lot of people.” Nicholas sighed. “And I have no proof he’s anything except full of himself, which you just accused me of being.”

  Henri smiled. “Still, you could win her if you wanted her. She’s not engaged.”

  Nicholas watched his friend saunter toward his coach.

  Henri was right. He could win Lydia away from Sebastian in any number of ways. The lawyer didn’t deserve her.

  But . . . he didn’t either.

  Henri was wrong about her being engaged though. She may not have Sebastian’s ring on her finger, but she considered herself Sebastian’s intended.

  And he’d never, upon his life, steal a woman away from the man who’d won her.

  21

  Nicholas rubbed his arms as he strode up to his house as quickly as he could. His early morning meeting with his mill’s supervisor had run late, and after that, it seemed he’d been putting out one fire after another. He pulled out his pocket watch. An entire hour and a half past when he’d had Mr. Black tell Lydia he’d meet her. She’d told Mr. Black she intended to arrive early to visit with Pepper, Angel, and Robbie, but what if she’d given up on waiting for him and left when the children had been summoned to lunch? His maids could have easily told her how often business kept him out later than he intended—and it wasn’t as if he and Lydia had been on good terms the last time they’d been together.

  He shivered against a gust of wind—the temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees from the time he’d awoken. Despite the cold, he was actually looking forward to putting on his threadbare coat, now that he’d had his maids wash it so as not to subject Lydia to its odor anymore.

  As he crested the rise, his front door opened. A well-bundled Lydia stepped outside and scurried to meet him at the end of his portico. The smile she flashed him was tentative, and perhaps . . . ill-at-ease?

  “Good afternoon, Nicholas.” She rubbed her hands together briskly as she picked up her pace to meet his. “I’d almost given up waiting on you, but Robbie kept me company.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder but saw no little silhouette in any of the windows. He’d not had much time for Robbie this past week. He’d been busy coordinating a merger and meeting with his lawyer several times over some bungled paperwork.

  Lydia shivered beside him. “It’s not a nice day for a stroll into town. Yesterday would have been so much better.”

  “True, but don’t worry, we’ll be riding.” He’d sent Mr. Parker home about forty minutes ago to get the new library coach ready, and his horses were likely ready to get their blood pumping. “And the coach is equipped with plenty of lap furs.”

  She glanced toward his driver checking the horses and then surveyed the coach. “Do you have a different conveyance for every day of the week?”

  Mr. Parker chuckled as he handed Nicholas his threadbare coat.

  How many vehicles did he have? Not important.

  “I ordered this coach made especially for you.”

  “For me?” She put a shaky hand to her chest. “Why would you buy me a coach?”

  “Step inside and see.” He twisted the brass handle on the enhanced coach and held out his hand. Despite her wearing gloves, her hands felt stiff and cold in his. He helped her inside and almost didn’t let her go, wishing he could warm her fingers until he was certain they were no longer as cold as ice.

  She slid onto the bench in the middle—the only seat available—and ogled the interior with wide eyes. “This is . . . incredible. But I don’t understand.”

  He stepped inside and sat beside her. Too close, but he couldn’t stand up the whole ride, either.

  He’d only let himself travel with her today, no more than a few hours to endure the soft floral scent that enveloped her and made him want to—

  Spinning away, he gestured at the interior as if she hadn’t noticed already. “This is your traveling library.”

  Every inch of wall was fitted with bookshelves, the single window being the one in the doorway. The workmanship was rather ingenious. He’d given the wagon maker an idea, and the man had created a masterpiece.

  Nicholas pulled the lap robes out from under the long bench seat, thankful he’d ordered them before he thought he’d actually need them, and handed one to Lydia.

  He pointed to the shelves to his right. “These are school books.”

  The coach jerked forward, and the momentum slammed her against him. His fingers encircled her upper arms to steady her. How dainty she was. Despite imagining tucking her closer, he forced his fingers to unfurl and let go.

  She colored nicely, the rosiness in her cheeks making her dark eyelashes and pale blues even more arresting.

  He went back to pointing. “They’re arranged by grade level from top to bottom. I ordered them for the children who might not be in school. I figured their mothers, or hopefully someone literate in the household, could help them read. They can keep them for the year.”

  He rotated slightly on the seat to face the
back wall, his mind clearing a little without her skirts brushing against his knees. “These are newspapers, farming quarterlies, and ladies magazines. Behind you are the cookbooks, health guides, and sundry manuals on woodworking and whatever else I thought the men might be interested in to improve themselves. And over there on that shelf”—he indicated the one on her other side—“is literature.”

  She ran her hand along the single shelf of novels and pulled out the copy of Roughing It. “I suppose this shelf is for Theresa.”

  “I’m sure others will succumb to the magic of you talking about novels and want to read one or two.”

  “Magic?”

  “When you were talking to Theresa last week, you were mesmerizing.” His cheeks heated at his choice of words. He should shut up.

  “That’s silly.”

  Or perhaps she was more enchanting now, with her eyes wide and her lower lip tucked between her teeth. What would she look like after being kissed really well?

  He straightened and scooted away lest she hear the thumping in his chest. He needed to keep a steel trap on his mind or he’d get into trouble. Blast Henri for suggesting the nonsense that he could have any woman he wanted.

  Lydia sighed and looked away, running her fingers along the small shelf of popular fiction again.

  He’d thought having his heart race was bad enough, but the current dip in her brow and the sag in her shoulders made the beats turn sluggish. “You’re disappointed.”

  He’d told Henri she’d find his library idea wanting.

  “No, no. I . . . I didn’t expect this. Yet, after the past several weeks of dealing with you, I should have . . . should’ve realized you’d not do things like I expected.”

  Yes, he prided himself on doing the unexpected, but this time . . . “Did I do better or worse?”

  She gave a noncommittal shrug. “Different.” But her tone said worse.

  He slid a primer off its shelf and flipped it in his hands. He’d decided from the beginning not to consult her, wanting to do things his way simply for the sake of thwarting her preconceived ideas. Though as this day drew nearer, he’d hoped this would please her.